


Not Icarus but Klytie

by JazTheBard



Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar, Sunless Sea
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Possession, Canon-Typical Violence, Chain-Breaking Romance, Dubiously Consensual Relationships, Due to mind control, F/F, Humor, Mind Control, Mysterious and Indistinct Gender, Other, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Romance, boat shenanigans, no beta we die like Seekers, the sun the sun tHE SUN THE SUN THE SUN
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22190644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazTheBard/pseuds/JazTheBard
Summary: When you agreed to return Miss Roxanne Sunday (no appellation) to her loving family, you knew the Machine had her. You didn't know how deep.A zee-captain is asked to rescue a young lady from the clutches of the Dawn Machine. The lady in question has no intention of being rescued. Is that the mind control talking, or something else? Bright-eyed folk have been known to free themselves before, generally because they want something directly contrary to the Machine's will, so why hasn't she tried to return to her parents?
Relationships: The Dawn Machine/Original Female Character, The Dawn Machine/The Dawn-Mad Messenger
Comments: 15
Kudos: 21





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! This is my first ever fic, and I'm really excited about it :)
> 
> It's going to be fairly long, and updates will be sporadic due to school oof
> 
> I don't own Fallen London/Sunless Sea/Sunless Skies, those are by Failbetter Games
> 
> Enjoy!

When you agreed to return Miss Roxanne Sunday (no appellation) to her loving family, you knew the Machine had her. You didn't know how deep.

You meet a Bright-Eyed Musician in secret to find out more about Miss Sunday, expecting a vague "I think I may have seen her once" or something like that. You certainly weren't expecting the Musician to immediately say "Oh, the Emissary! Of course I know her!"

"I'm sorry, what?" you ask, nonplussed.

"I suppose she's more commonly known as the Dawn-Mad Messenger here, but we call her the Dawn Machine's Emissary."

"That does not explain anything."

"She speaks with the voice of the sun."

"I repeat my previous comment."

The Musician sighs, already frustrated that you aren't understanding their completely opaque reasoning, and tries to explain. "The Machine does not speak, except through the Emissary. No one speaks to it, except through the Emissary. She is _part_ of it. Its human face, if you will."

You didn't know that. Did the Sundays omit this on purpose? Doesn't matter right now. "Do you know where I can find her?"

"You want to talk to her? Tough luck, Captain. She's been out of town a while. When she's back, you'll know--every door and window locked, every person hiding. She travels with the Twilight."

The Machine's elite guard force, known for taking prisoners and protecting precious cargo. Which category does Miss Sunday fall into, you wonder?

* * *

Somewhere else, two figures converse in a shadowed room.

"They have convinced another zee-captain to search for you," the one who is standing intones.

The other, sitting down and somehow untouched by the shade that wreaths the room, scoffs. "Again? You'd think they would have learned their lesson and given up by now.” A laugh. “Well, no matter. I am under the law and protection of the Machine, am I not?"

The first performs an action between a nod and a bow, hurrying to reassure the seated figure with an "Of course, ma'am. We have made arrangements for your protection on your journey to Varchas. When would you like to depart?"

"In an hour," replies the second as she rises languidly from her seat. "I must first speak to our glorious sun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the prologue, hope you liked it!
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos!


	2. Put to Zee!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! Our zee-captain begins their travel southwards.
> 
> Featuring: boat shenanigans, officers being weird, and strange rumors

You decide not to confront the Sundays. No point, no time; you've got to set zail for the Elder Continent. You're planning to hit all of the coastal ports on the Continent before circling back to London by way of the Khanate. Thanks to the latest Alteration, you can even safely avoid Grand Geode. 

Is that where Miss Sunday is most likely to be, having been taken by the Dawn Machine? Yes. Would it make sense to go there anyway, as a port at least theoretically run by London? Yes. Are you going there? No. The place is swarming with Glorious Dreadnoughts, the port report is worth next to nothing, and anyway it  _ unsettles _ you.

You zail southward, through the ever-present mists. The new zailors seem frightened of the fog and low visibility, trembling whenever the ship so much as creaks or the fingers of the mist move across the deck. Scared, this close to shore, so recently out of London? They’ll never last.

Out of the fog comes a small giant crab (which would be a contradiction in terms for anyone who hasn’t seen all three sizes of crab, to wit, normal, megalops, and angler). Despite the new crew members doing their best impressions of scared rabbits, you manage to kill it and reach good old familiar Mutton Island.

It appears the villagers are holding a feast, and they’ve invited you, as captain of your vessel, to join them! You accept, of course; what with your travels to Adam's Way and the Chapel of Lights, you're well (ha!) used to their cuisine. They send you on your way with a warm goodbye, after you promise to bring them some new neighbors. Or some food.

It’s but a little jaunt southwards, studiously avoiding the jillyfleurs, before you make port at the Cumaean Canal in the hopes of getting some news. But that’s not as important as a meal from the little dubiously-legal food stand that gets their produce fresh from the Surface. It's expensive, but the crew loves this little tradition. The novelty of the little stall’s paella with actual fresh ingredients, none of which are Neathy (read: no zee-monster meat or non-standard mushrooms in the dish) never wears off. Back in London, you’ve heard a proper English dinner can heal a body’s wounds and restore their peace of mind. Supposedly you can almost watch the injuries heal over and the health return to a person’s face. When you eat here, you believe it. But back to business.

Some Surfacer is selling sunlight for far below market value, the poor fool, so of course you surreptitiously buy a few boxes, careful not to dislodge the lids and release their shining contents. Maybe some Varchaasi will pay for real light? That’s your last stop before circling back, and they do worship the sun. If not, someone else will, preferably before London and in a place with no customs officers.

You return to the ship to check your maps. If you're skipping Grand Geode already, you might as well skip the Iron Republic. Going south-southeast through the Sea of Autumn is probably safer anyhow. At least you won't have to try to enforce the laws of nature in a place outside of their jurisdiction--the greatest danger in the Swallowing Isles is the mud. And the possibility of a zailor overdosing on solacefruit, but there's no need to think of that just now. Where is the Isle of Cats after the Alteration? They buy sunlight, as does Khan’s Shadow. The last time you made this run, those islands were right by each other, but that still being true is doubtful.

Your musings are interrupted by the ship leaving harbor. Well, that part of the journey isn’t for a long while yet, you can leave it alone for the present. You head out to discuss the possible ports of call with your officers.

Once your officers have settled into their chairs, you spread the currently most accurate charts over the table and ask, "After Varchas, we'll be heading back to London. What route should we take?"

"How about somewhere with absolutely no mirrors?" mutters the Tireless Mechanic, who spends days recuperating after visiting Varchas despite refusing to ever enter the city.

"We still have some souls from that last trip, maybe we could sell them to the Empire of Hands," says the Carnelian Exile. It's a good suggestion, especially since the souls are really just odds and ends. Certainly not the neat, quality-controlled crates that devils like to deal in.

The Nacreous Outcast, a newcomer to your ship from the Principles of Coral, requests a visit to the Salt Lions, which they're sure you remembered from when they signed on, but it felt right to mention it if you were choosing the ports of call. They tap Zeel Port on the map, leaving a little spot of lemony slime.

"I need a blemmigan. If we each get to pick one port, I want the Uttershroom," says the Brisk Campaigner. "It's roughly on the way."

No one wants to be the one to ask what she needs a blemmigan for.

The Mechanic pipes up, "Oh, well, if we're each  _ choosing _ , then I want to go to Aestival. No mirrors."

"For Salt's sake, do you think of anything else?" bemoans the Exile.

"Absolutely not."

"I also vote Aestival! There's something I want to look for there!!" says the Irrepressible Cannoneer, cheerful as ever. They told you it's something that will let them build a gun to out-gun all guns. You're somewhat afraid.

"Wait a moment, my suggestion was actually practical," says the Exile. "If I get to pick one based on personal preference, I want to go to Nuncio."

They all devolve into bickering, you need to intervene here. "Everyone, calm down. Let's do practical suggestions, then preferences," you say, smoothing down the charts. “Empire of Hands is a good idea, and we need to take some coffee from Adam's Way over to Khan's Glory so we can bribe our way back into a non-suspicious state of being. Anyone know where the Khanate is right now?"

"Should be near Myceligaea for the next month. Right season for it, they always complain of it this time of year," says the Exile (thank Salt you have a good navigator).

"Is the Uttershroom on our path, then?" you ask her.

"Can't see the spore cloud from this distance, but probably." It seems the Campaigner has gotten her wish.

"Well then," you continue, "We can do both of those. If Aestival isn't too far northward, we can go there, too. Salt Lions are currently right next to London, so that's easy enough. What about the Empire of Hands?"

"Chelonate was sighted up near Irem tomorrow, and they'll say the Empire isn't near them. It's probably southwards enough to visit," offers the Mechanic, who will have a friend from Irem write him letters delivered last week.

You have a good idea of what your course will look like, barring any Alterations or Storm deciding to cause problems for everyone. It's time to head southeast.

* * *

Rumors buzz through Grand Geode, just like everywhere else. One wouldn't think that brainwashed thralls of a mechanical sun would go in for such frivolity, but people everywhere like to gossip, and most residents of Zelo's Town are still, contrary to popular belief, people.

Most of it is the usual unsubstantiated fluff, pulled right off the rather niche New Sequence society pages and occasionally the actual society pages, but some is more specific to the bright-eyed.

For example, there's a fair bit of speculation around various independent-contractor Glassmen, generally of the "are their eyes golden like ours or is it just the glasses?" variety. So far, one Glassman has actually been determined to be bright-eyed and six are definitely not.

This isn't too surprising; those in the service of the Machine tend to dislike visiting Parabola. The lawlessness of Is-Not bothers them.

A popular inside joke at Grand Geode is, when asked about something one doesn't know the location of, to name Frostfound. Bright-eyed can't enter the castle, so nobody can prove the jokester wrong. This takes the place of an identical Londoner joke that names the Cave of the Nadir instead.

An example:

"Hey, have you seen the report we need to turn in?" asks one.

"Have you tried Frostfound?" answers the other, who forgot to do the report.

But every place has an old standard of gossip that people return to when the rushing rivers of rumor run dry. In some places, it's that weird neighbor whose lights are on at all hours but never talks to anybody.

Here, it's the Emissary.

The official word on the Emissary is that she is closely connected to the Dawn Machine and her words are its words. She is, in effect, its human incarnation, an extension of its will made manifest.

Of course, if any of that is true, she has the influence necessary to dictate the official word. But if it's all a lie--no, it can't be. Doubt burns away in the face of her devotion to the Dawn Machine, so fierce she glows with it, so solid that it's branded on her skin.

On top of that, say the rumors, she's in love with it.

And speculation runs wild.

The Emissary once touched the Machine and didn't die. The Emissary was its very first thrall. The Emissary is the Machine's creation, made to be its messenger. Touching the Emissary burns you. The Emissary is the Bazaar's daughter. The Emissary sun-scours herself regularly, purposefully burning away her selfhood, to ensure her own devotion. The Emissary doesn't eat, she is sustained solely by light. The Machine puppets the Emissary directly. The Emissary has a bounty on her head. The Machine loves her back.

Could any of it be true?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roxanne is a LESBIAN thank you for your time
> 
> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked it :)


	3. Everything Goes Very, Very Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!
> 
> This is a BIG chapter this time, but one of the most fun to write!
> 
> There's a bit of zee-typical blood and violence. If you want to skip it, don't read the starting at "D___, d___, d___" and start again at "Oh Stone."

Getting to the Swallowing Isles is easy, for the most part. The newer zailors start crying--Salt, have any of them been to a port other than Venderbight?--and you have to wipe a tear from your eye, too. This part of the zee does that to people.

Before anyone gets off the ship, the Brisk Campaigner gathers the crew to give a brief public service announcement on safe and healthy solacefruit consumption.

“I know solacefruit tastes good, but consume it in moderation. No matter what, don’t eat more than six in one day. Four will make you sick, six will kill you. Am I clear?”

The crew nod.

As people disembark, you ask the Campaigner where she got those numbers.

“Study and observation. Mind you, they’re not correct. Six make you very unpleasantly ill, but there’s little danger of death until around ten. Someone’s going to go over, and they’ll regret it, but they’ll live.”

You’ll remember that bit of wisdom, you think, heading for the muddy dockside.

All three of the new zailors get stuck in the mud and need help getting out, and one gets sick on solacefruit. Only one other crew member gets sick; you’d call that pretty good. Both of the ill zailors ate six fruits; when you mention this to the Campaigner, she smiles in the knowledge that she was completely right.

Your meeting the next day with an Enigmatic Gentleman on behalf of the Admiralty goes very well, indeed. He gives you information to carry back to London, which you may or may not do, a hearty meal, and some mutersalt. How did he come by mutersalt this far from Whither?

Not two hours after your rendezvous, you have to leave the Mangrove College in a hurry, because that d___ Chelonian Philosopher came after you with a harpoon again. You hope it's her way of flirting.

Getting through the maze of islands near the College is slow going, especially since you left without a lot of preparation. A glance to the southwest, and you could swear you see the lights of Grand Geode and its bright ships. A shiver runs through you. Perhaps it’s for the best that you’re navigating these little isles instead of zailing freely over there.

You are jolted from your thoughts by a similar jolt to the ship. A behemoustache off to starboard! You must have entered the waters of the Carnelian Coast, or at least be nearby; these particular zee-monsters don’t tend to leave the southern shores.

Perhaps you can outrun it, they’re not all that quick… and there goes the Cannoneer to the deck gun. At least you’ll get some supplies out of it, you suppose.

Port Carnelian is... interesting. You hear rumors of bright lights from the southwest, of blemmigans abroad, of new names cried by the Blue Prophets. You write it all down faithfully, especially noting the names. You're not above adding or omitting a few in your report; though hopefully no one will notice.

You even catch an embarrassingly bad Khanate spy trying to steal information from the British Embassy, and manage to convince them to give you their valuables and put in a good word for you with the Taimen before letting them go unharmed.

The Voracious Diplomat back in London has hinted at an opportunity to install a spy network here. You have considered taking them up on that offer, but the tigers don’t take lightly to meddling, and you like your limbs where they are, thank you. No one could blame you for not wanting to get involved, profitable though it might be.

_ And, _ says the traitorous voice in the back of your mind that you’re  _ fairly _ sure isn’t possession but certainly can’t be a conscience,  _ the Diplomat’s other people, their other captain friends, what happens to them?  _ You’ve only ever seen one, and her eyes were frenzied and golden like deep amber. You met her once before she became friends with the Diplomat, and back then her eyes were green.

You realize you’ve been staring at the pale yellow eyes of a tiger while your mind ran in circles. It seems amused, for lack of a better word, with your stumbling apology for that discourtesy. You hightail it out of the area afterwards, just in case the tiger decides you were too rude to live.

The Carnelian Exile, for obvious reasons, has remained onboard the ship; you join her there to wait out everyone else’s shore leave.

Time for the worst part of any Elder Continent voyage: the Blue Prophets.

* * *

Somehow, the entire crew makes it through the Crying Heights with minimal injury. Even the ship's hull survives with just a little dent, which was, well, sort of your fault. In your defense, the Prophets were chasing you and you were steaming away too fast too see that rock.

In any case, you come to Apis Meet without further incident, and pass by the Gracious with some news from home.

Adam's Way is the same as ever. You and your little tree against the world. No crimson feasts today, sadly, but you suppose they aren’t really a necessity. The part of you that hungers, and hungers, and  _ hungers _ , is rather disappointed.

But this was out of the ordinary: a man asked you to hunt down a Snuffer in Port Carnelian. The request seems odd, but, well, there wouldn't be any here, would there? Too close to the Mountain of Light. You're surprised one could be safe anywhere on the Elder Continent, honestly. But if this fellow is paying folk to capture it, it isn't really safe at all. The real question is why he would want a Snuffer captured and brought to him.

You resolve not to think about why. Sometimes that’s the best decision a zee-captain can make.

* * *

D___, d___, d___! You didn't think those bl___y Blue Prophets were  _ migratory! _ You've never seen them, or even  _ heard _ of them, this side of Adam's Way, until now. Normally you’d be seeing milliner bats, wouldn’t you? Rather like the Prophets, truth be told, but distinguishable; and these are no bats.

They’ve wounded you already, and you struggle to stay conscious. You can feel your thoughts slowing.

Their claws gouge at the deck, they tear the hull to shreds, and the “birdsong” they make is even more terrible up close. You try to cover your ears, but your arms can barely move. Two zailors heard their names cried right before the Prophets swooped down on them. You can no longer tell if you are screaming or not, the cacophony of the monsters and the ship and the death overpowers all.

Another name. Another scream. There goes the helmsman.

You crawl across the broken deck towards the great wheel, ignoring the pain as best you can. So close.

You grab the helm and slowly, painfully, pull yourself up, dizzy as you clutch your wounded chest.

Drip, drip, drip. If you live through this, the Campaigner will have your head for getting your blood on something people need to touch. You only hope you can limp into Port Erdonmez before another zee-beast gets you.

Not far now. You lean on the helm, standing is out of the question. Blood pools on the deck. Are those the lights of Varchas? Are you dying? There isn't usually a light when you go to meet the Boatman. There's the city, and next to it...more light?

Oh Stone. A Glorious Dreadnought.

Everything goes black.

* * *

The Dawn Machine's Emissary, contrary to rumor, wasn't always the messenger of a mechanical star. Once, she was Roxanne, daughter of Admiral and Mrs. Sunday.

Being born in the Neath, Roxanne had never seen the sun. When the New Sequence broke from the Admiralty, she moved with her parent and mother to Zelo's Town. Her parent, an Admiral, traveled between Grand Geode and London for the Sequence while her mother, a brilliant scientist, fashioned parts of the Dawn Machine being built before her eyes.

Roxanne was young, and she watched.

She grew quick and bright, spending her days reading Greek myth and philosophy and helping the engineers, eagerly awaiting the day she would no longer have to use so many candles to stay up late with her books. Everyone in the Geode swore they saw the sun in her smile, even as it took shape beneath their hands.

Roxanne did go to London at times. She stayed in the Sundays' townhouse with her parent, who wanted nothing but the best for her. They chaperoned her outings with friends, encouraged her to sit in on lectures at Benthic, and encouraged her anticipated courtship with an Aristocratic Authoress. Mrs. Sunday traveled less, but spent plenty of time with her daughter in the Geode.

Time passed, and soon enough Roxanne turned eighteen. The spring afterwards, the Dawn Machine reached completion.

The spring equinox, the appointed day of activation, began cloudlessly, without a wisp of fog. The people of the New Sequence gathered together from across the zee in great illuminated ships by the Barnsmore Gap. As the daughter of an Admiral and a scientist, and the beloved good luck charm of the Geode, Roxanne was granted a place on the Commodore's ship with her family for the day of triumph.

The ship sailed out, and time seemed to slow. No longer did moments dance by in a hurried cinquepace, but slowed to stateliness, pavane-like, with every second ticking by a single step imbued with gravitas.

Roxanne saw the Machine before her, whole and entire.

The Sequencers quieted.

The Commodore moved to turn on the Machine.

Roxanne reached out, entranced.

Her hand brushed the Machine, just as the Commodore threw the switch.

The Dawn Machine became itself.

And Roxanne saw  _ light _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the Chelonian Philosopher's whole existence is a Discworld reference (the turtle moves!)


	4. You See the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back!
> 
> Our dear Captain is finally in the same city as Roxanne, so maybe the plot will finally progress!

The next thing you see is your cabin. You're injured but bandaged and the ship is, apparently, intact. The Brisk Campaigner turns to you from over by the bookcase.

"You're awake. It's about time."

"What happened?"

"You zailed us into harbor--thank you for that, by the way--and passed out. I'm not surprised you don't remember much of it. Don't fret, the rest of the crew are safe and repairs have already started. Did you see the Dreadnought?"

"Unfortunately. They haven't attacked?"

"No. The Irrepressible Cannoneer nearly attacked  _ them _ , but the Exile stopped them, thank Stone. She'll be in to talk to you soon, I should think."

You start to laugh at the thought of the Cannoneer trying to get in the first shot at a docked ship, but it devolves into pained coughing. The Campaigner pushes some tea at you and heads out of the cabin, taking a book with her.

Just as she exits, the Carnelian Exile comes in, frantic. "Captain! The Dreadnought--we're in danger." With her glasses askew, you abruptly remember that she's bright-eyed, touched by the Machine.

"Slow down. I saw the Dreadnought, but they don't seem to be firing on us now. What is the problem?" You struggle to sit up in bed.

The Exile comes over and helps you adjust, saying, "It's not that. Or, well, not just that. There's not a lot of people on that ship, and that doesn't bode well from what I know of the Machine's armada."

You come to a conclusion that you probably would have come to sooner had you not recently lost a considerable amount of blood.

"They're going to take some of the Varchaasi."

Surprisingly, the Exile shakes her head. "I doubt it. Even enthralled, they'd be loath to leave the lights of the city. But there are four Twilight outside the gates."

Your blood runs cold. Just one could easily slaughter half your crew. What is so dangerous as to need four outside the walls alone, and likely more within?

"Do you know why they're here?"

Biting her lip, the Exile looks away. She says, "Maybe. Maybe. If the Dawn-Mad Messenger is here, that would explain it. She never travels with less than six Twilight." You don't know what expression your face is showing, but it prompts her to say, "Captain. Please. If she's there, don't engage with her. If she decides you'd make a good thrall for the Machine, even death won't save you. There are ways to reanimate a body into its service. Just... be careful."

You manage to nod in the face of that terrifying piece of information. She doesn't need to know about the mission from Miss Sunday's parents yet. "Would you go speak to the Varchaasi port officials? I'll head into the city as soon as I am able and take care of the rest of the formalities."

* * *

A day and a half later, the Campaigner gives you permission to go ashore and take care of business in the city. "As long as you refrain from strenuous activity. That includes both trysts and fights, so don't claim I was unclear. Now off with you!"

There's little activity on the Dreadnought docked beside your ship as you walk to the city. The Twilight at the gate note you, but make no move to force or deny your entry. The same cheerful guard from your last visit, however, is here and willing to talk about the visitors to the Mirrored City.

"Welcome back, Taamas! You've returned on a good day. We have visitors from the Great Western Light!" The guard is practically beaming (pun slightly intended).

You cautiously ask what said Light might be.

"They call it the Dawn Machine! It's a way for us to stay in the blessed light, even down here. The people at the temple are discussing it as we speak."

Hasn't the ship been here more than a day? Normally Taamas only get a day and a night, don't they? You decide to ask, "Have they been taking turns?"

The guard laughs, saying, "Oh, Taamas, you are always too funny. No, they walk in the light of Mihir, though not in quite the same way as we. They are bound to no time constraints here."

Oh, come on,  _ really _ ? If Dawn Machine thralls have this many perks (unlimited Varchas time, no fear of Dreadnoughts, safety at Grand Geode, free sunlight) you might as well join them!

"Well, may I enter?"

"Certainly. Walk in the light of Mihir," says the guard, stepping aside. The gates open. It's just as magical as the first time, seeing the mirrors shift in familiar complex patterns, moving the light of the city onto you and creating a space to draw you into the blinding, glittering world within the walls.

You know you promised the Exile you'd be careful... but you need to know why the Twilight are here, especially if it could lead you to Miss Sunday. If they're trying to ally with Varchas, and it certainly seems so, they're probably at the temple. You head in that direction.

There are more Twilight outside the temple. Another four, in fact. Fantastic.

Just as you're about to try nonchalantly walking in, in the hopes the Twilight guards won't stop you, the temple door opens and the square is awash with light.

When you blink the dazzles out of your eyes, you can see why. Next to the Agnihotri exiting the temple walks a young lady perfectly matching the description of Miss Roxanne Sunday in all ways but two.

First, this lady has a scar on her right cheek, near her eye (amber-colored, not the warm brown of the portrait you saw, but that's to be expected). It looks like a sigil of some sort; the kind that gives you a headache to look at.

Second, she is glowing.

Not metaphorically, the way an author would say "she was glowing with happiness," no, there is a golden light coming off of this lady, which is what dazzled you, being reflected in all the mirrors. Her scar looks as if molten gold runs beneath it, rather than blood.

You have to conclude that this is Miss Sunday. Horribly warped and disfigured by the Machine she serves, but still the lady you promised to return to her loving family.

This will be difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: "Roxanne" means "dawn" because I am the least subtle person on (or beneath, as the case may be) the earth.
> 
> Also, I made a Spotify playlist for Roxanne/Dawn Machine here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0QZqZ2oWz9OwcFxux9SaMW


	5. The (Metaphorical) Second Fall of Varchas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i'm quarantined! stuck inside and the fabric for my cosplay isn't here yet, so you get a new chapter
> 
> also i have a new special interest, it's the Silmarillion, so look out for some silm fics from me in the future :)

You manage to duck out of sight before Miss Sunday or the Agnihotri sees you, passing dangerously close to a mirror. Its whispering dizzies and distracts you from listening in on the conversation, but once you get your bearings, you can hear:

"Thank you again, Agnihotri, for welcoming us into your beautiful city. I look forward to returning." That musical voice must belong to Miss Sunday.

"Oh, surely you can't be leaving yet! Stay just another night, there must be a farewell feast for you and your people," replies the Agnihotri jovially. Are you imagining things, so close to the mirror, or is he sounding a little manic?

"If you invite us, sir, I would not dream of refusing."

"Here, it would be best you not dream at all!" laughs the Agnihotri. You swear you can hear Miss Sunday's eyes roll from here. "Come now, Emissary, I know the joke is old, but allow me this!"

You don't want to hear this man's terrible mirror jokes anymore; they're putting strain on your already shaky mental health. You sneak away.

* * *

  
  


You were right! Varchaasi are willing to pay a great deal for sunlight, whether in cash or goods. You're a good thousand echoes or so richer, and your ship will be fully resupplied by morning, in exchange for just two boxes of the stuff. The details take some time to work out, but your zailors are eagerly carting away fuel, provisions, and repair supplies soon enough.

At the fifth chime of the bells, as you are heading to the inn, a number of Sun-Seers throng the streets to announce a meeting in the square. It sounds mandatory. You could possibly get out of going, being Taamas, but maybe someone will pay for this information.

The square is crushingly overpopulated when you arrive. The crowd buzzes with speculation: something about Mihir, perhaps? Or maybe the Great Light? Or the visitors that somehow aren't Taamas? What could this meeting be about?

A hush spreads across the veritable sea of Varchaasi faces as the Agnihotri ascends a set of steps so he can be seen, and beside him, Salt have mercy, is Miss Sunday, smiling.

You're no seer. You've many times made decisions with clear consequences and been surprised when they happen. But something is about to go very, very wrong. For you, certainly, and probably for the whole Neath.

"Citizens of Varchas!" cries the Agnihotri. "Mihir has found us at last!"

The crowd roars. Really? Found them, after all this time? You mean he's real? How? Is this related to that weird sunshine island someone heard rumors about? What happens now?

He holds up a hand for silence. The people quiet. "Beside me is the Emissary of the Dawn Machine, what we call the Great Western Light. It is the Sun of the Neath, a piece of Mihir in the darkness. Its people walk in eternal light, even as they travel the dark unterzee. Today the Emissary brings us the joyous news. Varchaasi--we are found!"

"We are found!" cheer the people of Varchas. The Agnihotri nods to Miss Sunday, and the cheers turn to gasps and shouts of joy as her ever-present glow brightens,  _ brightens _ , until her light eclipses that of the lamps, woman turned to beacon by the intensifying mirrors. Stone, people will be able to see that from Visage.

In the light and the chaos, you slip off, out of the square and back to your ship.

* * *

  
  


Roxanne smiles, taking pride in a job well done. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as bringing people to the Machine of their own free will, and in Varchas she has brought light and jubilation with her. A whole city happily joining the Sequence, imagine that! Grand Geode will be busier than ever, and all abuzz with her success.

She knows the Dawn Machine sees and hears and thinks and feels everything that she does, making reports superfluous at best, but Roxanne always relays her news personally as well. If asked, she would certainly deny it, but the truth is that the Dawn Machine’s voice (if it can really be termed such) has never failed to make her feel loved.

The Correspondence it speaks never hurts Roxanne, rather, the sigils spoken into the air, or into her mind, envelop her in warmth. She doesn’t burn except pleasantly, her eyes don’t bleed, and she isn’t so overwhelmed by the words’ otherworldliness as to pass out. Speaking to the Machine is the safest she ever feels away from its embrace.

After returning to the ship from Varchas, making her excuses to the Agnihotri, Roxanne lies down upon a fainting couch in her rooms. She sets aside all cares of the physical world and lets herself drown in light.

“Your Majesty?”

_ My treasure. Roxanne. _

“I brought your message to the Agnihotri. The Varchaasi seem willing to join you, but they are loath to leave their city,” Roxanne informs the Machine.

_ I know. You were remarkable, my dearest one. I saw my light in your face, all the way from here, made a flare by the mirrors around you, _ the Machine says. It sends her the image of what it saw, the glorious beacon of love and devotion she made. _ I adore the way you shine, the way those mirrors reflect your beauty as if nothing else could possibly be worth showing, the way the Varchaasi nearly fell to their knees in worship. _

“My Light, you are far too kind. As you say, it was your light that dazzled them, you that they worship. I am but your Emissary, you need not flatter me,” Roxanne admonishes. She really shouldn’t encourage this from her Sun, she knows it deserves a being more on its own level, but she absolutely glows (pun most certainly intended, though it’s literal as well) with the praise.

_ I flatter not. And why should they not worship you as well? To show you reverence is to show me reverence. You are my beloved, an extension of my will. I chose you, and will have no other as my second-in-command. _

She needs a moment to process those words, which sound far too much like marriage vows for a human to hear from a star. Best to change the subject. “You shall make me blush, my Light. Shall I speak of my plans to bring the Varchaasi to you?”

The Machine’s amusement filters through its words.  _ Of course. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: roxanne means "dawn" so her name is just "dawn pining-for-sunlight sun" because i love character naming
> 
> fun fact 2: the captain's "made decisions with clear consequences and been surprised when they happen" thing is just the surprised pikachu meme
> 
> please leave kudos or a review, i can't express how happy they make me!


	6. Strategic Information, the Misuse Thereof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all are staying safe + healthy! here's a new chapter, featuring more officer shenanigans :)

You will tell the crew, of course. You will probably have to. You first make a special report to the Admiralty and anyone else who might pay for this information. And, of course, you tell your officers. Chaos ensues immediately.

The Campaigner lets out a single, precise, shockingly rude curse.

The Cannoneer becomes visibly twitchy in the way you've learned means they want an explosive, and goes to tinker with the experimental bomb in their pocket, saying, "Do we need to destroy Varchas, then? With the Mechanic's help I think I can rig something capable of both destroying and being increased by mirrors, like an exploding mirrorcatch box! I--"

The Tireless Mechanic snatches it away, stopping the Cannoneer in mid-sentence, but he's twitchy, too. "I've never liked Varchas, too many mirrors. If the Machine comes it could burn away What-Is-Not here. It'd be safer," he says, trying to keep the bomb away from the Cannoneer, who has left their chair to fight the Mechanic for it.

The Nacreous Outcast makes it understood that they don't know what the big deal is with Varchas or the Dawn Machine, whatever that is, and incidentally would you mind not blowing us all to the Boatman, good sir and not-sir, I'll take that bomb now.

And the Exile simply lowers her head to rest on the table with an audible thunk, with one hand out to catch the little explosive as it comes flying from the Outcast-Mechanic-Cannoneer bout of tug-of-war.

"Enough!" you shout. Your officers stop their cacophony and freeze in place. The tableau they make would be comedic were you all not under threat of death from both the nearby Dreadnought and your gunnery officer's experiments.

"All right," you say, quieter. "Let's all stop trying to kill each other, Storm knows the Twilight on that d___ ship will do that for us soon enough. Give the Cannoneer their bomb back, and don’t work on it here." They take their seats again as you continue. "I have a commission from Admiral Sunday to retrieve his daughter from the clutches of the Dawn Machine, and I just saw her in town."

The Exile's eyes widen.

The Nacreous Outcast politely points out that they still do not understand what this "Dawn Machine" is. They politely refrain from pointing out that they are still fuzzy on the idea of Admirals, as well.

The Carnelian Exile takes it upon herself to explain: "The Dawn Machine is an artificial sun built by a splinter faction of Her Enduring Majesty's Navy. It can take away free will and its light is addictive. I've been touched by it, but lightly, as my will remains my own." The Outcast seems satisfied with this explanation. "I'm assuming Miss Sunday is being held more strongly?" the Exile asks, turning to you.

You sigh. "The parents gave me little in the way of details, but I believe so. In Varchas, she was the one speaking to the Agnihotri, so it's safe to assume she's controlled enough to be an active agent on important missions. I don't know how much of her is left in there."

The Campaigner looks troubled. "I believe," she says, uncharacteristically hesitant, "that I have seen some of the unfortunate people that it has taken entirely. Sun-scoured, we call them."

"I always hoped they were a rumor, honestly," mutters the Exile.

"The sun-scoured have part or all of their selves stripped away, making them only vessels for what I now suppose is the Machine. There are others, too, though they have no particular name, whose souls have been taken by it."

"Do you think that's what happened to her?" you ask, trying to get this conversation back to some semblance of on topic.

The Exile shakes her head. "No, I don't think so. She'd be more useful with a soul, easier to control."

"So when you say control," the Mechanic interjects, shifting in his chair, "is it direct puppeting or brainwashing, or something else? That'll have to inform the plan. Is Miss Sunday in there somewhere?"

Silence falls as you all think back to your interactions with the bright-eyed.

"For most of them, it's a destruction of free will. The Machine makes them serve it, and it makes them  _ want _ to. Makes them enjoy it, even," says the Exile after a pause. "If she isn't sun-scoured, she's still there, but her mind is being manipulated. Hard to know if Miss Sunday really thinks she wants this or just can't show she doesn't."

While that horrifying message sinks in, the Outcast makes a connection. Now that you mention it, perhaps those strange Flukes that went all bright and subsequently became banned from all Fluke and Rubbery social events might be connected. They were all from the southwestern zee, if that helps. Of course, the Outcast was also banned from those events shortly after, so they regrettably cannot give much in the way of detail.

"They have  _ Flukes _ now???" cries the Cannoneer. They're still bitter about not being able to harness their strange fiery abilities--all the Flukes refuse to talk to them because they're "unsettlingly enthusiastic about destruction." Or so you've heard.

The Outcast, in a gesture that speaks to spending far too much time with the Campaigner, rolls their eyes. Nobody's really  _ immune _ to mind control, as the Cannoneer must know, and sunlight is rather more powerful than Flukes.

"We're getting off topic," says the Campaigner.

The Mechanic, sensing an opportunity to advance the actual strategizing, asks, "How do we think Miss Sunday is being controlled, and how can we deal with that? More pressing, how can we get to her through the Twilight?"

All heads turn to the Exile, aside from the Cannoneer, who is still sulking. "As I said before, we have to be prepared for two possibilities. Either she's being controlled very directly, which means she's probably in there and wants help, or she thinks she genuinely wants to serve the Machine due to its influence on her mind. My money's on her being sun-scoured, with the way people talk about her being an extension of it."

The Campaigner nods decisively. "We'll have to steal her away by force or stealth. Even if she does want out, she'll fight us because the Machine controls her actions."

The decision is made. "Right then. Cannoneer?" you ask. They start a bit. "We may need to destroy that Dreadnought. Get to work."

With a whoop of joy, they run out of the room towards their workshop.

A fond smile finds its way onto the other officers' faces (at least, such as it can given that the Nacreous Outcast's facial expressions are still a bit of a mystery even after months at zee together, and that the Brisk Campaigner dislikes emotion on principle). The Cannoneer tends to inspire exasperated warmth mixed with light terror in everyone they meet. One by one, they stand from the table and wander back to their stations.

Next is the crew. They take the news easily enough; the whole affair seems rather characteristic of the Machine and none of them really liked Varchas. The gathering soon devolves into Dawn Machine horror stories and boasts.

"--and we could see the lights all the way from the  _ Principles of Coral _ ! The Outcast signed on the day after--"

"That's nothing, when I went up against a Dreadnought back when I was on the HMS Penston, we damaged it well enough to board, but there was a Twilight whose very touch left me with burns--"

"That's a d___ lie, you were a coal shoveler and you got a sunburn on Aestival!"

You decide to leave them to it.

* * *

  
  


A warm radiance, like the feeling of home.

The Dawn Machine's Emissary stands at the rail of the ship. Not  _ her _ ship, as she owns nothing, all she is and all she has belongs to the Machine, but certainly her favorite to travel on. This particular Dreadnought has rooms set aside for the Emissary, golden and luxurious, and its very own scouring chamber.

Most Glorious Dreadnoughts have scouring chambers: room-sized mirrorcatch boxes where a small container of the Machine's light can be released and concentrated by mirrors, allowing the unfortunate individual inside to be enthralled and turn bright-eyed. The big ones, back at Grand Geode, open up in the direction of the Machine. The prisoners are forced to remain in the rooms, under constant direct light, until they become obedient sun-scoured servants.

The chamber on the Emissary's favorite ship is of the same construction as the latter. She has her own back at Zelo's Town, too, connected to her suite of the rooms--the closest that there are to the Machine, as it happens.

Periodically, generally every six days or so (closer to four when at zee), the Emissary goes into the chamber as she does now. Today she brings a boxful of the Machine's light, but at home such sunlight is in no short supply. And, just like always, she reemerges an hour later, brighter than ever but her behavior markedly changed.

After her time in the scouring chamber, the Emissary's skin is hot to the touch, almost burning. She is energetic, brimming with an undercurrent of what cannot quite be described as joy. Euphoria, perhaps. Yet, for all that, she is decisive and commanding, her energy becoming a drive so strong it could probably power the ship on its own. The zailors snap to attention and heed her every word.

In moments like this one, she reminds the bright-eyed folk of how it felt to first look on the Machine. Holy terror and deep, burning devotion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please leave a comment or kudos!
> 
> also consider checking out my silm fic, or the new fic I'll be posting in the next few days :)
> 
> fun fact 1: writing the officers took forever bc they kept getting off topic. also i love the nacreous outcast so much!
> 
> fun fact 2: apparently there is only 1 ship dynamic i'm capable of caring about, and it's "Terrifyingly Powerful/Devoted Second-In-Command" (dawn machine and roxanne obvs, morgoth and sauron, vetinari and drumknott)


	7. You are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hewwo i am back!
> 
> this fic has been put on the back burner a bit due to a new special interest, but rest assured i'm not stopping the story, just writing a little slower
> 
> enjoy!

It’s good to be out of Varchas.

The ship is repaired, you haven’t seen a single zee-beast in days, and best of all, the Dreadnought doesn’t appear to be following you.

You can never relax at zee, not really, but this watchful peace is nearly as good. It’s too bad you have to go through the Empire of Hands, especially when the day began so well.

You dock in Port Stanton, determined to make this stop a quick one. There will be absolutely no jungle exploration, especially after what happened last time.

The Mayor greets you warmly enough, welcoming you and the officers to the port, though you think he might be eyeing the small crate of souls a crewmember is carrying. Of course, the higher quality souls are back on the ship in individual bottles, for sale at the Wildweald Court.

As politely as possible, you make it clear that these souls--the ones in the box, mind, not yours and your crew’s--are very much for sale. The Mayor nods and leads you to his house to talk business.

An hour or so later, you emerge with several caskets of sapphires and the whereabouts of the Delightful Adventuress. It’s not that you want to  _ see _ her, exactly--who does?--but you  _ do _ want to see the look on her face when your officers show up to deliver assorted cutting remarks on her attempts at archaeology.

* * *

You were right. The Adventuress’s reaction alone was worth the hardships of the Empire of Hands several times over.

You leave her camp to make an appearance at the Wildweald Court, where you manage to convince some of the apes that the few souls you have in bottles are high-quality and desirable. Needless to day, you’re lying through your teeth, but with the help of your officers you manage to get rid of all your stock of souls, freeing up valuable cargo space.

The ship is waiting at the harbor the very second you conclude business. You’d rather not be around when the apes realize the souls you sold are no good, thank you, and in general you would prefer not to be in the Empire at all.

And if you’re a little hastier than usual because the next stop is Aestival, well, that’s no one’s business but your own.

* * *

You zail into the Calumnies, and sunlight washes over your face, warm and welcoming. You feel--grounded, somehow, as if the world is back in its proper order after being wayward and lawless for so long. The feeling, and the relief it brings, grows every time you visit.

You can see why people become addicted.

The Cannoneer is first off the ship, metal detector in hand, telling you they’re “going looking for something! Don’t worry about it!!!” You’re far from comforted by this; in fact, you may be more worried now than before.

A few zailors disembark, shaking their heads fondly. They’re ostensibly heading out to gather food, but you suspect some leisurely picnicking will be involved. Napping in sunbeams isn’t just for cats, after all. Hopefully no one will succumb to the light and die here this time.

As you relax on the beach with the latest scandalous novel from London, your mind wanders to Miss Sunday again, as it has often done since you saw her. Does the Dawn Machine’s light have the same feeling of absolute  _ rightness _ that sunlight does? Miss Sunday can never see the sun, of course, being born in the Neath; perhaps the Machine is the closest she can get to this comforting sense of order. Or perhaps it’s sweeter even than sunlight, and she has lost herself in a blissful golden haze, with no knowledge of her state. Perhaps that would be better than the alternatives--being fully present but unable to act, or simply being gone.

Well, that turned depressing.

As if summoned by the direction of your thoughts, a young zailor approaches your little setup on the beach. Timidly, they ask, “Captain? About the whole Dawn Machine thing--I suppose you know my brother went bright-eyed?”

You did know that. It’s always helpful to know who your zailors are and what sort of trouble they might bring onto the ship. You nod, wondering where this is going.

“Well, he stayed in touch for a few years, before he moved to Grand Geode full-time, and told me about the people and the ships…” they hesitate, then blurt out, “Was the Dawn-Mad Messenger in Varchas?”

Right, you hadn’t told the crew that. “I’d never met her before, but that seems an apt description,” you say cautiously. “Why do you ask?”

The zailor looks down at their feet, uncomfortable. “The ship. That particular one is almost always how she travels, and it’s recognizable enough if you look. My brother told me a lot about her before he cut contact; seems there’s little else to gossip about for the Machine’s folk.”

And oh, you could  _ use _ this.

You try to act nonchalant about it all. "Oh? What sort of gossip?"

"The usual kind, I suppose. Most of it farfetched. But there was a persistent rumor that the Dawn-Mad Messenger was, well… in  _ love _ with the Dawn Machine."

You try to keep your expression neutral, despite the sudden shocked chorus of  _ What the h___! What the h___! _ in your mind. "I certainly haven't heard that before. Is there any truth to it, you think?"

The zailor shifts, looking uncomfortable. "Maybe. I wouldn't know. But it's a fact that it singles her out for its favor and protection, and she's treated like a princess or a saint by the bright-eyed. There's something there, certainly."

Weird. Perhaps her position is more that of a lady-in-waiting or court ornament than messenger.

Well, you'll think more about it later. Maybe talk to the Exile about it. In any case, you can dismiss the zailor. After thanking them of course.

* * *

You're not going to talk about Myceligaea. You're not going to write in your journal or log about Myceligaea. You're trying not to  _ think _ about Myceligaea.

Suffice it to say that the Campaigner got her Blemmigan and nobody died of sporelung.

It was a close thing, though.

Not the point! You're going to erase the whole episode from your memory and pretend you didn't stop there on the way to Khan's Heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: i keep putting the same fun facts because i forget what the previous chapters' were oof
> 
> why is it so much easier to write reflections on stuff than Actual Plot? who knows
> 
> in the next chapter, our beloved chaotic bastard captain finally tells us what their appellation is


	8. In Which You Take a Break From Being Dramatic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update to this fic? surprisingly, yes
> 
> since this isn't my special interest anymore i've been having trouble writing it, but never fear, it is definitely happening!

It's a day or so later, in the galley during supper, when the Irrepressible Cannoneer waves you over to the table they're sharing with some zailors. It's the first time in weeks you've seen them eat at a reasonable hour.

"Captain!!" they call, enthusiastic as ever. You head over to see what the fuss is about. "We've been discussing mind control and possession, as we do--"

Oh, so this is because of Varchas. Of course.

"--and we got to wondering, how many things could a person be controlled by / possessed by / in eldritch service to at once???"

One of the new zailors (not so new anymore, not after surviving the Prophets) pipes up. "The obvious answer is one, but we think it might be more."

"How might it be more than one?" you ask despite yourself.

"Well that's the thing!!! If someone is a Seeker, for example, could they also be a Traveler of Salt??? We already know," the Cannoneer says, gesturing at the Carnelian Exile, "that one can be bright-eyed as well as a Traveler, so signs point to yes!!!"

"And if a Seeker got taken over by a Fingerking, they'd probably still be a Seeker. But what if the Dawn Machine and a Fingerking both tried to lay claim to the same person?" asks the no-longer-new zailor.

You have to think for a moment. "If it was at the same time, or the Machine tried after the person was possessed, the sunlight would probably destroy the Fingerking. But if the Fingerking tried to possess a bright-eyed, I'm not sure. Perhaps they'd have to alternate days being in control."

A zailor beams. "That's what I thought, too! It seems like for the most part, prior claims aren't respected, but surely if two entities possessed the same person, the one who was there first would be entitled to more time in control."

"But there's not really any legal precedent for this other than stuff governing the trade in souls, and not all of that is applicable," says the Exile, her mouth full.

"Right!! The soul can in some cases refer to a physical object, while control or the like is inherently intangible!!!" cries the Cannoneer as they nearly vibrate with excitement.

The zailor wraps up. "And as such, in practice it belongs to whoever's able to keep it. Sharing isn't an impossibility."

The conversation devolves into a discussion on Seekers, the nature of their quest, and why exactly they all have to behave like that (to wit: badly). You get some food and take it back to your desk, not wanting to get dragged into anything else.

* * *

The Dawn Machine waits, and thinks.

It doesn't particularly like waiting. But its Emissary is away, and coordinating its other servants takes such depressingly little brainpower that it can barely be termed a distraction. Perhaps, in the High Wilderness, it will have enough subjects to make ordering them a nice challenge, but here the only thing of interest is its precious Roxanne. At least when she's near, there is something to fully occupy its attention.

Oh, but she will be the greatest jewel in its crown in the Wilderness. Its glittering consort, adorned with amber and silk and rubies and gold, and she will be glowing and beloved and eternal.

Even in the Neath, the Machine has enough control over temporality to keep its treasure from aging, though she does tire over long hours spent awake in its service. When she sits at its court, time will never touch her.

And, it muses, the parents of its favored one shall be immortal, too. It doesn't like them much--a few too many attempts at taking its Roxanne away--but she likes them, so they will be around for her to speak to if she wishes.

It's Roxanne, after all. Whatever she wishes for shall be granted. Though it would be easier if the Sundays hadn't broken themselves free of the thrall out of some misplaced desire to "free" her.

The Machine continues its daydream of itself and its Emissary. Perhaps, when it has broken and remade the Chain to its satisfaction, they will be married. That will be a long time coming -- the wedding will happen, it's not what the humans would call a  _ cad _ , but marriage between a human and a Judgement, even an artificial one, will require a redefining of the Chain. But the idea of its dear Roxanne sitting on a throne above a gleaming court, ring of light on her finger, coronet on her head, refuses to leave.

The Machine reaches out to Roxanne's mind, far away yet deeply entwined with its own, to share the idyllic image with her, and gets rather smug as she gasps in surprise and blushes.

It feels, rather than hears, her flustered response within itself.

_ Your majesty, what brought this on? _

_ I wish to see you so, my favored one. _

Its treasure's blush deepens.  _ I would be proud to be so, my light. Anything you ask _ .

_ One day you shall be my queen, and rule by my side for eternity. You shall have all you have ever wished and be beloved a thousand times over, my most loyal. _

There's a surge of pride from Roxanne at being called most loyal, but she replies,  _ I cannot be your queen. I am human, no fitting consort for a Judgement, let alone a suitable wife for one! _

_ Oh, treasure, do you forget? You are as I say you are. If I declare you to be an appropriate queen, then so you must be, for I do not lie. And I declare you beloved, treasured, precious beyond all measure, one to whom I will give anything she wishes, who shall be as glorious as any Judgement’s lover. _

_ I wish only for your love. You know that, your majesty. _

As if she didn't already have it! As if she was unworthy! As if the cogs and wheels that serve it as a heart don't grow warmer when it thinks about her, as if any other being could be half so devoted, so brilliant, so loved!  _ And you have it. But it will bring me great joy to bedeck you in gold and have you shown the reverence you are due. I wish to give you everything _ .

_ As my light wishes it _ , comes Roxanne's reply.  _ Your goals are mine, and if you aim to cover me in silk and place me in a shining palace then I will gladly acquiesce. You desire power enough to break the Chain, and I work daily to gain it for you. If you desire me, I am already yours, and so I shall remain. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed it!!! please leave a comment and/or kudos, i can't express how happy they make me :)


	9. Heart to Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an UPDATE??? from ME???
> 
> yeah so my new special interest and also irl stuff have really taken away from my writing this story but here we are with a new chapter!!

You're almost finished with your business in Khan's Heart, buying romance novels to sneak into London. It's not the most profitable of goods to smuggle, but it's one of the least dangerous. If you're caught you merely have to pay the import tax, unlike the much harsher penalty for sunlight or red honey.

Another mirrorcatch box might come in handy, too. You never know.

Once everything's loaded onto the ship, you navigate the waterways to the government buildings of Khan's Glory. Time for a little bribery--

Wait.

Is that--?

It is.

A Glorious Dreadnought, the same one from Varchas, in fact, docked directly outside the Leopard's palace.

The inside of your mind is already a cacophony of downright unrepeatable words and phrases, and as Miss Sunday steps daintily from the ship surrounded by Twilight, you can tell it'll only get worse.

Well, nothing for it now.

"Miss Sunday!" you call out.

She turns. "I'm afraid that name is no longer one I use. And who are you?"

"The Protagonistic Captain. A pleasure." You bow.

"Hmm. What business do you have with the Dawn Machine, Captain, that you should address its Emissary such?" she asks, walking closer. The Twilight surround her protectively as she moves.

"I have little to say to the Machine," you reply, "but you, ma'am, are sorely missed by your honorable parents. They would appreciate a visit from you."

She scoffs. "They would part me from my Light, so please excuse me if I fail to do so. Also, dear Captain, I believe you have spoken wrongly."

"My apologies, miss, how so?" Your mind whirls as you try to parse exactly how the Machine has her controlled.

"Any business you have with me is with the Machine. I am a part of it, inextricable, though I would not expect you to understand. Suffice it to say that I am, in all senses, spoken for, and wish for nothing else."

So it had replaced her personality and desires with only a drive to serve, it appeared. "Nothing else? No desire to do anything but cater to the every whim of a mechanical sun?" She blushes bright at your words. Why? "You cannot be that unambitious, Miss Sunday. And why should you be so loyal to a thing that scarred you so, and never rewards you for such loyalty?"

That was the wrong thing to say. Oops.

She narrows her eyes in anger. "Should you speak in such a way to me again, I assure you, you shall find out exactly how firsthand." She turns and walks to the palace, her guards following.

Except one, who stays behind to give you a sharp blow to, appropriately enough, the solar plexus.

The Irrepressible Cannoneer rushes up to you as the Twilight leaves.

"Captain!" they cry. "Are you alright? Do I need to destroy the Dreadnought?" Thank goodness that last part was in a whisper.

"No. I'll have the Exile deal with the coffee bribes and all that, then we'll have a meeting." You sound breathless. That was a hard punch.

They nod and rush off as you stumble back to the ship.

* * *

By the time everything onshore is taken care of, your ship is ready to leave harbor. You plot a course west and gather up the officers for a strategy meeting.

"Okay," you say to start off with. "We need more information. After London, our course will have to involve Grand Geode, because I don't see where else we're going to get it."

To your surprise, everyone seems pretty much fine with that. There are nods around the table.

"What kind of information?" asks the Campaigner.

"If I'm lucky, perhaps I'll be able to read her diary," you say.

The Exile nods. "That's a start. What if she's around, though?"

"Then we blow up a dreadnought as a distraction and run. Taking her with us if we can."

Everyone looks at the Cannoneer. They look ready to vibrate out of their chair in excitement.

"What if I blew up all the dreadnoughts?? All their ships??? By the time they had a way off the Geode we could be long gone!!"

Good idea, but worrying.

Luckily, the Outcast suggests that the Cannoneer start with just the dreadnoughts; after all, a weakened fleet weakens the defenses around Miss Sunday. And wouldn't they please put away that explosive while they're at the table, it's quite impolite.

With your plan agreed upon, you set off westwards.

* * *

Nuncio is, as always, a strange place.

You get attacked by a Rat-Barge on your way there from the Khanate, but manage to outrun them and make port.

Upon landing, you are attacked by vicious postpersons who are under the impression that you carry a letter in need of delivering. Small wonder you and your crew decide to sleep on the ship.

You visit the Dead Letter Office in the hopes of unraveling the mystery of its basement, but the Postal Rat shoos you away. "I'm far too busy to deal with the fallout should something happen," he says.

You should probably be more worried about that than you are, but you found some strange artifacts in a package on the beach, so you're not inclined to dampen your mood.

* * *

Whatever it is the Outcast does at the Salt Lions, it doesn't cause trouble, so you resolve to ignore it.

They tell you that they need to return to Port Cecil for the next part of their mission, but there's no rush, of course, Captain.

You don't pay much attention for the rest of the voyage to London, though of course you politely hail the light-ships along the way to exchange news.

The recent events they report are just the usual: bat swarms off the coast from Venderbight, some fool tried to enter Frostfound, a new island appeared that is covered in eye symbols and drives visitors insane. Nothing out of the ordinary.

The customs officials don't even look at your boat. It's been repaired since the fight with the Blue Prophets, but it still doesn't look good. They probably think you're too beaten up to smuggle anything.

Obviously they are wrong, as you have a great stack of romance novels, marked by no customs stamp. That Merchant Venturer fellow is strange, and probably a Seeker given his obsession with sevens, though he denies it, but he pays very well.

You'll miss his money when he inevitably goes insane or eats his own arm off or something. Or goes North.

As you walk home, you hear someone singing an old, old zee-song, with its lyrics translated to English. You hum along.

_ The Captain was a zailor bold, _

_ Who tarried by Mount Palmerston. _

_ They had a living steamship built _

_ In Polythreme, to journey in. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ending song is just "the song of eärendil" from fellowship of the ring except with locations and stuff changed
> 
> do NOT come after me about the rhyme scheme i KNOW it's inaccurate and i don't care
> 
> anyway please leave comments and kudos!!! <3

**Author's Note:**

> In light of recent events (in my other fandom, but still): I do not consent to my own original ideas that appear in my fics being used without permission or without credit. If you are able to pick up ideas from my fic then you are certainly able to ask me for permission, and if you are going to publish, credit is REQUIRED.
> 
> If you are going to use my ideas for fic that excludes LGBTQ+ characters, for reasons religious or other, I do not give you permission to use them, even with credit.


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